


Beauty like a Battle

by autumnsolstice9



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnsolstice9/pseuds/autumnsolstice9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3 times people couldn't tell Arya she was beautiful and one time they could</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty like a Battle

**Author's Note:**

> There's slight Arya/Gendry because I love them together and Jon/Arya if you squint but I think of Jon and Arya of having a really close sibling relationship. It could be Jon/Arya if you want I don't really care enjoy yourselves.

Ned Stark loved all his children, including Jon Snow. Even if he wasn’t Ned’s actual child, he was raised as one of his own, and he would never deny his love for Jon if asked. Catelyn did not look upon Jon with any compassion and instead looked at all the other Stark children with warmth. 

Nearly all, at the very least.

As he wandered through Winterfell’s castle, he could hear Catelyn chastise Arya for skipping another sewing lesson. He had to suppress a chuckle--- the girl was as wild as a wolf and no one would be able to confine her to sitting in a chair all day. He paused to listen to Catelyn, and was unsurprised when her voice became harsh.

“You should behave more like Sansa! She acts like a proper lady, and you go off and run around like a wild animal! Stop trying to be a beast and be more like your sister!”

The quiet reply of ‘yes, mother’ had Catelyn storming out of the chamber with a straight back and red face. Inside, Ned could make out Arya’s form, huddled by the fire and playing gently with her hair. She was stroking it with care, but soon began tugging on it furiously, her hands moving like a storm as they ran through the dark locks. He could see her pull out pieces of hair, her hands still moving quickly and with anger, as he stepped into the room.

Arya stopped pulling at her hair when she heard him enter the chamber. “What are you doing, little wolf?” He gently prodded.

The full weight of Arya’s gaze was on him when she turned her face towards him. Uncontrolled anger and desperation swam in her eyes and she looked at him as though she wasn’t really seeing him there. “Mother wants me to be more like Sansa,” she answered, her voice wobbly, “I can’t be like Sansa. I can’t! I can’t be like Sansa when I have knots in my hair and dirt on my face!” And here was the desperation, the unrefined panic and despair a ten year old girl could only feel when she knew she would never live up to high standards. “I can’t! I am a Stark and they are all Tully! I can’t even change my face to please her! My hair is too dark and my eyes are too gray and my temper is too rough! I can’t! I can’t!” Here she began sobbing, deep and so traitorous to who Arya was as a person. Ned took her into his arms and gently began rocking her while she repeated in broken cries, “I can’t! I can’t!”

When her breathing began to even out and her hold on him loosened, he looked down at her. She looked so much like Lyanna, and there was never a doubt in his mind from the day Arya was born that she was as breathtaking as his sister was. She was not a Tully, but she was a Stark, and she was pretty like a wolf. Both are dangerous but stunning, though people often forget to appreciate them in their fear. Planting a kiss on her forehead, Ned held her closer and told her, “I think you’re beautiful.”

(He would feel the urge to remind her every time he heard Sansa, Theon, and Robb tease her. He couldn’t shield her from the words of those in the village, but he would try to let her know she was beautiful. When he was about to have his head cut off and the only thing he could hear was Sansa’s screams and the only thing he could see was Arya’s face, he swore he had never seen a more amazing sight than his daughter.

He would never be able to remind her of her beauty again.)

***  
“You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

The worn and tired voice sent a shiver down Gendry’s back, and he turned to get a better look at who was talking to him. Arya stood not even 5 feet away, her face heavily guarded and arms crossed in front of her. When he had first met Arya, she had been twiggy and looked younger than everyone else heading towards the Wall. It made sense now, she was a girl and had softer features than the boys and men in the group. He had seen through her secret and could read every expression on her face, except for now.

“What am I pretending about?” It was a genuine concern for him; he didn’t want to make her life more hectic than it already was.

What she said next tore him to pieces. “You can stop pretending I’m pretty. I know I’m not, you don’t have to act like you think I am just to be nice. I’m not some pretty acorn tree. Stop pretending like you think I am.” The anger that had wound it’s way into her voice and onto her face was easy for anyone to see, and Gendry wondered if it was really that big of a deal that he thought she was pretty.

The problem wasn’t even that he thought she was pretty--- it was that she thought he was lying about finding her pretty. “Well, you’re definitely not ugly”, he told her, and he meant it. She looked like a fierce warrior out of a fairytale. Her hair was long enough now that it brushed her shoulders and her eyes were the type of color that could haunt a man. Arya moved like a graceful cat and always tried to put a smile on someone’s face; she was a radiant glow in a stormy world.

“Please, save me your pity. I know I’m Arya Horseface, an ugly little girl. I’m not Sansa and I never will be. It’s better to accept it now instead of living with a false hope all my life. And you,” she grounded out, “are not helping by calling me pretty. My own mother doesn’t call me that.”

With that, she swept away to go find Hot Pie and left Gendry in the dust, wondering how such beautiful woman could be denied a compliment from her own mother and how he would ever be able to change her mind. 

(He would never be able to let her know what he really felt for her, for they both left each other and Gendry would search years for the pretty girl who looked like a fierce goddess. He should have joined her pack when she made the offer. He would hear her call him a stupid, bullheaded boy only in his dreams, and during those nights he would agree with her.)

***

Sandor Clegane just wanted to be rid of the wild girl he had with him. Arya would never shut up, except when she was sleeping, and all that talk was enough to drive a man crazy. Her empty threats to kill him were always amusing, but then again, so were his words that he would decapitate her if she tried anything.

In another life, if he were to have had a child, he wished it were like Arya. She wasn’t completely terrible and was willing to fight if the time came. All the spoiled brats in King’s Landing could learn a lesson from her, and then maybe there wouldn’t be so many useless deaths in the world.

Sandor enjoyed death though, so it was best that he killed little girls who took up sword fighting before they led an army to kill him.

Approaching the Frey household, where Sandor would finally be rid of the girl, he slowed down so they could rest and create disguises. The last thing he needed was to have gone all that way only to be discovered with a Stark girl and lose all the potential money he would have. “Come on,” he grunted, “We’ve got to make you look like common folk. Mess up your hair. Rub dirt on your arms. Just do something.”

Arya’s face had whitened at his words and she violently shook her head. “I can’t. I have to be clean.”

Sandor suppressed a sigh as he had to deal with another verbal battle with Arya. “You just bathed in a river. No commoner would join the Frey house smelling like fucking fresh air. Now come on, we’ve got to make the wedding in time.”

“No!” Arya shouted. “I won’t! You can’t make me!”

Getting fed up, Sandor spat out, “Why not?”

Arya looked down. Now this, Sandor wasn’t used to. He thought he had seen every side of Arya, but here she was, looking ashamed. Quietly, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her, she said, “Mother won’t accept me if I’m dirty. I have to look nice for Mother.”

“Of course she’ll take you! You’re her fucking daughter, now stop your whining!”

“No, she won’t take me.” Arya sounded completely convinced of this, her eyes wide and voice wavering. “She won’t want an ugly little girl. She’ll want Sansa. I can’t go to her unless I look like a lady! She doesn’t want an ugly daughter! She wants Sansa! I can’t give her what Sansa can; I can’t be useful to the Stark house like Sansa! Not unless I’m pretty and look like a lady! She won’t take me otherwise!”

Sandor couldn’t help but remember his own father, looking at him with disgust because of the burns on his face while his brother got all the glory. However, it didn’t matter. They had a schedule they needed to maintain. Grabbing one of Arya’s shoulders in a tight grasp, he threw dirt on her face. “There,” he sneered, “now you’re dirty. Your mother will take you if I have to throw you in her arms.”

(When Sandor lay there on a rock, bleeding out, and Arya wouldn’t offer him mercy, he thought she was beautiful. She was an unreachable gift. She was a true fighter and sought out vengeance. Sandor had never seen anything so amazing.)

***

When Jon Snow, now a Targaryen, first saw Nymeria arrive back in Winterfell, after the war was over and there was only one king, or in this case queen, in Westeros, he let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He ran through the keep, looking for his little sister so he could finally embrace her like he had been waiting to do for years.

Instead, he reached Nymeria and watched Ghost nuzzle his sister while Jon tried to find Arya. But when he looked out into the empty fields, he saw nothing but empty fields covered in blankets of snow. That distant thought in the back of his head, telling him that Arya was likely dead, reemerged and consumed his entire being for the whole time he watched empty fields fill with snow. He quickly pushed it away. Arya had to be alive. If any of the Stark’s were to survive, it would be Arya. So he went back into the castle and stared into flames, reminiscing a time when fire could show a man what he wanted to see.

Bran appeared next to Jon, when he had first arrived by his cousin’s side he didn’t know. Only the soft cough Bran made to let Jon know he was there brought his existence back to Jon’s mind. Stirred from his thoughts, he asked, “Cousin, do you control your visions? Can you seek out certain events?”

A sour smile took over Bran’s face. “I wish I had the ability. I would have told you of the White Walkers years ago if I had any clue. It’s a strange gift. In my dreams the three eyed raven keeps leading me towards the Narrow Sea, but I can never cross. I can’t even see what lies on the water, for the fog is too thick surrounding it, but thousands of wolves await it’s arrival. The old gods have little control over whatever it is that is coming, but for the sake of Westeros I hope it isn’t another R'hllor fanatic.” He ended it with a shaky laugh, as if the past were something he could only deal with in the form of humor. Suddenly turning serious, he faced Jon again. “If it is Arya, she will be a true wolf. The pack awaits her. I don’t know what that means.”

Jon gave Bran a small smile and turned back to the fire. His little sister would be a true wolf, someone who led others into battle and still cared for her pack with unwavering loyalty. He couldn’t be prouder. He just needed Arya to return.

Months later, Jon was practicing his swordplay when he heard Bran shouting for him. “Jon, my dream has changed. It’s no longer on the shore, the three eyed raven is following a wolf pack. It’s a monstrous pack, and in the woods surrounding Winterfell. They howl towards the keep, and our wolves answer. She is coming home, Jon. She leads them.”

So he waited longer for her to arrive, awaiting the moment when he could muss her hair up again. And eventually, the time arose. Coming into the castle, head held high, was a woman. She had long, brown hair, as dark as Jon’s own hair, and her gaze was fierce and calculating. Her eyes were a sharp gray, or perhaps a silver, but they so closely resembled Ned Stark’s that he had to pause to keep himself standing upright. There was a fading tan on her skin and her lips were a dark red that broke out into a wicked, lopsided grin when she saw him. Most importantly, in her hand was a thin blade he thought he would never see again--- Needle.

Arya had grown since he last saw her.

Throwing his arms around her, he whispered into her hair, “Sister, I have missed you so much.” And it was true, he had missed her like the sea misses the sand. Sansa, Rickon, and Bran were cousins, but Arya, she would always be his sister. Pulling back, he saw the smile she had plastered on her face for him.

He remembered all those years ago, when he had called her pretty. He changed his mind now; she wasn’t pretty, she was breathtaking. Still the girl others would call Arya Horseface, but now she was back home, and to Jon there was nothing more beautiful than seeing her face back in Winterfell after so many years away.

(Every time he caught her looking at Sansa and then back to herself with a frown etched into her features, he would remind her. When her eyes would become haunted and she would wander around, convinced she was still stuck as the Ugly Little Girl, he would tell her she was stunning. If the townsfolk called her names, he would let her now her beauty was like a wolf--- it was a beauty like battles that end in triumph and the way something could be haunting but filled with awe. Jon never let his sister forget what so many others never told her.)


End file.
